


ἀγορά

by listlessness



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Timeline, Gen, Introspection, back on my sad bullshit, grace longs for a nice time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 03:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21029231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listlessness/pseuds/listlessness
Summary: And yesterday the night owl sat,Hooting and shriekingIn the marketplace at noon-W.S.*Her children disappeared from her life, and then they disappeared from the world entirely.Grace has adopted seven new adults, who have her children's names and faces, but so clearly aren't her own.It has been thirty years and she has yet to leave the house.





	ἀγορά

**Author's Note:**

> I love Grace, I love sad fics, I have combined them both.
> 
> There are tiny Diego/Grace leanings, because I am that thot, but it by no means has to be read that way. 
> 
> Partly inspired by [this dress](https://imgur.com/a/SW7Wt8V) Jordan wore on her Insta.

The dress was a made of a shimmering gold fabric. In certain lights it came up with a bronze undertone; in others, it appeared as a silvery chrome. It was a heavy fabric, and the weight of it meant the skirt lay flat. It would take some effort for it to flip up. 

Like most of her wardrobe, Grace had made it herself. The pattern had originally called for a bateau neckline, but she had altered it so the straps sat off the shoulder and revealed her creamy decolletage. Perhaps it was too risque. It would be an easy enough fix, but Grace didn't think it was perverse. She had a modest send of style and she was still well covered. Far more revealing fashion was par for course these days, and she had wondered more than once if she ought to take to the magazines that sometimes made their way into the home with large stickers and cover up all the unmentionable images. 

She had dressed and done her hair. Down, lightly curled, pinned slightly off her face. Her shoes (also gold, strappy, with a low and sensible heel) were on. Make up was simple and almost non-existent, bar for her typical bold, red lips. The children liked and needed some familiarity. She had a small, delicate purse. It contained nothing except for her tube of lipstick and a tranquilliser, in case of rowdiness. 

She had gone downstairs, her internal mechanics a-whirr with what could only be anticipation. It had been fifteen months, but she was about to venture out the front door for the first time. There was a twitch in her fingers and lips as she spied the children, lined up at the door and fixing each others uniform attire. Not their _uniforms_, so much, but each two-piece suit uniform and alike. 

Little Number Seven was missing. Tardy, as usual. _Vanya_. Grace would need to see to that. 

Mister Hargreeves was at her side before she could ask Number Six (_Ben_) where she had run off to. 

'There's been a change of plans,' he said as Grace turned, a smile already on her lips. 

'I'm just going to fetch Vanya,' she replied pleasantly, partway through turning on the ball of her foot. 

'That won't be necessary.' 

His tone was curt. Clipped. Grace's eyes fluttered as her subroutine reached a hiccup. Her head tilted to the side as the next one started up. Query, call, response. 

'Has Vanya taken sick?' 

'No.' 

Grace's head tilted to the other side. Down the hall, Number Four (_Klaus_) was calling out in frustration at one of his siblings. It was likely Number Two. _Diego_. She so often needed to stand between them. 

'Then what- ' 

'Number Seven won't be joining us tonight.' 

'But- ' 

The invite from the mayor hadn't simply included all the children. It was a family engagement. The invitation had even extended to Pogo. Of course, Grace's name wasn't on the invitation, but Mister Hargreeves had said _someone_ needed to keep an eye on the children during the course of the evening. But if Vanya wasn't attending, then someone would need to stay behind to keep an eye on her. Pogo was equipped to deal with a great many things, but if Vanya was having one of her spells, then it was simply unsafe for him to be alone with her. 

'The children appear rambunctious tonight, Sir,' Grace said a little weakly, as she turned to look back at them. 

'Ensure she is monitored throughout the night,' Mister Hargreeves continued, fetching his hat and coat from the cloakroom. 'She's been quite excitable all afternoon.' 

With her hands clasped in front of her, holding her purse loosely as her shoulders sank, Grace nodded quietly. 

It was the first time, but it wasn't going to be the last time. She knew as much then. 

She let Vanya shower early and dress in her pyjamas. Dinner was had in front of the television set. It was unorthodox for sure, but Vanya seemed to truly enjoy sitting on the couch beside her. They watched _The Land Before Time II_, a film that was wildly historically inaccurate, but Vanya laughed and enjoyed pretending to play Chomper with her arms stuffed into her long-sleeved shirt and just her small hands sticking out. Imagination was so important to children. 

Grace hooked her up to the monitors after she fell asleep. 

In the modicum of privacy the den provided, she played quiet music and unpinned her hair. She wiped her lips free of lipstick, dabbed the blush and mascara away, and stepped out of her shoes. Swaying side to side, she slipped the gown off and changed into her far more sensible tweed suit. Before Mister Hargreeves, Pogo and the rest of the children returned home, she stopped the record and went to sit in her couch. 

No one needed to know. 

* 

It went like that, on and off throughout the years. There were always invitations from various powerful groups and entities. Politicians, celebrities, celebutantes. Public personalities, public organisations. Charities and shadowy groups. Grace would be promised an invitation, and she would let the excitement get the better of her. 

She would make a new gown each time, increasingly surreptitiously, until she stopped. 

She'd set her hair early at first, and then learnt how to simply brush it in a way that made the curls appear effortless. 

Eventually she stopped getting dressed up in anticipation. Mister Hargreeves started saying she wasn't in a state to leave with them and, after a while, stopped and instead left without a word. 

None of it was meant to hurt. She was a machine, made of parts. Things like this weren't meant to effect her. Grace knew that, she told herself that. Mister Hargreeves could be a hard man, but he wasn't unnecessarily cruel. Surely not. 

The gowns were zipped away in garment bags, the shoes stuffed with tissue paper and kept in boxes to keep the leather crisp and unmarked. Everything was packed away in the room she called her wardrobe. It was bigger and far more private than the spot she recharged in overnight, but Mister Hargreeves insisted her couch was too heavy to move, and the electronics too delicate. Grace hadn't been programmed to argue and Pogo never suggested otherwise. 

* 

The children seemed to have collectively decided amongst themselves that Grace needed her own bedroom. She protested, in the way one does when they secretly approve of the idea. 

There was something unusual about them, but she couldn't figure out what. They were older, yes (and some apparently more alive than others), but there were other things, too. She couldn't recall scars being in certain places, or tattoos being in such locations. She overheard them mentioning something about the apocalypse when they thought she wasn't listening, but Grace had grown accustomed to hearing conversations had that she wasn't meant to be privy to. 

Mostly she enjoyed having a full house again; as full as a house barring the deceased Mister Hargreeves could be. 

They were going to take the couch apart and wire up a bed for her. Grace hovered about, her hands twisting over and over, watching as Luther and Five took the couch apart. Luther had had to do all the repairs himself while isolated on the moon, while Five had learnt several handy skills in his time away. 

'Really,' she said with a nervous quiver, 'I don't mind. This has been my spot for twenty-five years.' 

They weren't listening. Mister Hargreeves would have called them insolent. 

The bedroom was in the room next to the storage closet that had been her wardrobe. The room they were moving her into had an actual wardrobe, the kind that was built-in, with a door that closed in front of it. Allison had gone and bought her a dresser with a mirror and curtains and even a lamp. It was overwhelming, and it made her machinations whirr. 

Allison and Diego were transporting everything into her new room. At Vanya's insistence, Grace let herself get led away from where Luther and Five were taking apart her couch, both bossing Klaus about and telling him where to direct the flashlight he held. 

'C'mon, Mom,' Vanya said gently. 'We don't want Allison stealing any of your shoes.' 

'Oh, her feet are far too large,' Grace said gently. 'She'd be more inclined to pocket my jewellery.' 

No such event was taking place, Grace noted as she passed her soon-to-be-bedroom. Allison had matured since her teen years, and Grace watched quietly as she hung up a framed portrait of the family when the children were still small. Vanya slipped past her to help Allison with the decorations, immediately picking various items out of a cardboard box. It was filled with small items she had amassed over the years. Porcelain figurines, clay models, wooden carvings, all that had one point or another been somebody else's forgotten knicknack. 

She moved on, past the open door and to the closet beside it. A light was on, and she could hear Diego inside. She paused at the door frame, her hand resting upon it. 

'Diego, dear?' 

'Mom?' 

He was half-hidden amongst the billowing skirts, the large lapels, the scarves and belts and cloaks. Tossed over his shoulder were a number of shirts, while hanging over an arm were several dresses. Without a word, Grace stepped partway in and collected several hangers from him. 

'I don't recognise half of these.' 

Casting her eyes in the direction he was standing, she took in what he was referring to. She needn't have to; she knew instinctively what he meant. 

'Oh, it's been a great many years,' she said placidly, turning to make her leave. 'You can't surely remember every dress or shirt.' 

'No. Some of these seem unworn.' 

'And how could you possibly know that?' 

'_Mom_.' 

He had pulled a dress off the rail on which it hung. The garment bag had been unzipped to examine the contents within. Halfway through the door, Grace turned her head, despite herself. Diego was holding up the golden gown; the one that had meant to be her debut in social society. Freezing, she watched as Diego held it out and examined it. The full skirt was pulled to its widest point, his fingers dancing over the rouleau loops at the back. 

'Diego,' Grace started, before faltering. 

His eyes had flickered up, from the dress and to her. With her fingers clasped uneasily around each hand, a small noise slipped from the back of her throat. 

'It was in case you children needed an escort,' she finally said weakly. 'On the off chance your father was unable to attend to all of you in the evening.' 

It was difficult to tell if he recognised the gown. She'd only one it the once. After that first failed attempt at attending one of the family outings, Grace had hidden it away. She had led herself to believe that perhaps Mister Hargreeves had disapproved of the dress. Perhaps the neckline was cut too deep, or the fabric too gaudy. She had tried different styles, different fabrics, until she was forced to confront the fact that it wasn't her attire so much as, perhaps, it was simply _her_. 

It was unlikely Diego remembered it. And, from the way he studied the dress quizzically, it didn't seem like he did. So many years had passed, and her children were oh so different. 

'Come. Leave it,' she said with a shake of her head. 

'No. Mom- ' 

'_Diego_.' 

Reaching forward, Grace took the hanger from him. With a quick but smooth motion, she hung it back on the rail, zipped up the bag, and pivoted to quickly leave the suddenly too-small room. Now wasn't the time to get caught up in what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. 

* 

Grace had managed to fill her time easily enough. Even when the children had lived at home she wasn't always needed. She read recipe books from cover to cover, she learnt a plethora of different languages, she studied whatever knowledge was placed in front of her. She was starving for it. 

She crocheted and knit and sewed. Mister Hargreeves wasn't one to indulge flights of fancy very often, and he didn't quite understand the value of pursuing a variety of interests, but he permitted Grace that much. 

She held out hope, even when she knew it was for nought. She drew up patterns, pinned and tucked fabric, letting swaths of silk and chiffon hang overnight. Even as the children grew older and learned to control themselves (powers and general discipline alike), she found herself making excuses and reasons for her attendance to whatever event they were heading off to. Klaus could be rowdy, Allison still needed to be monitored, Pogo couldn't expect to watch all of them at the same time as well as Grace could. 

The doorway became a step into another world. She would hover in the entrance hall, watching daylight creep around the edges, until the shadows grew long. The light outside would turn yellow and orange and red. She'd wait, until she heard the car in the distance or her battery light turned on or she inevitably powered off into standby mode. 

Perhaps there was a failsafe. Mister Hargreeves wouldn't want her leaving. He had ways of ensuring the children remained safe; the same had to have been done for her. Maybe he had built some kind of kill switch into the door frame. That would be like him. If she so much as stepped one foot over the threshold, she'd fall apart, never to be made whole again. 

That was it. It was simply all there was to it. It was safer for her to remain inside. 

* 

Her children were different now. They had changed. Grace couldn't understand what it was that told her that, but she had a feeling humans would call it intuition. These adults that had come into her home after so many years weren't the same children that had left. 

Even so, she decided to love them all the same. They may not be _her _children, but they were _someone's_ children. Maybe even another Grace's. They needed and were worthy of love; in turn, she hoped her children were being given the same courtesy. 

She began to listen to them and watch them carefully over the next few days, as her couch was very carefully dismantled and the room she had been forbidden from using by Mister Hargreeves became her own. 

Luther was taller than he had been when he'd left for the moon. It could have been to do with gravity, but it seemed unlikely. Diego's scar was shorter than she recalled; maybe it had healed over time. She was also sure it had been on the other side of his face. Allison's daughter's name was Cher, not Claire. Klaus' tattoos were on the wrong hands, Five had been older when he'd disappeared. Ben had always made his presence known after he'd died. Vanya, most tellingly, had played the viola and not the violin. 

She sat quietly, cross-stitching and knitting, slipping the new history into her memory. By the third day, her battery light had begun to flicker in the corner of her vision, warning her that she needed to charge soon. 

Uneasily, she watched as the last parts of her couch were dismantled and the electronics were taken out. The wiring had been built deep into the floor, and Mister Hargreeves had failed to leave any instructions on what components were part of Grace's charging block and what simply turned the surrounding lamps on. Luther and Five were diligent and were careful, taking their time to carry it all in and rewire the mechanics into the bed. 

'I really don't need this,' she continued to protest, as the blinking in the corner of her eye grew more insistent. 

'You deserve to lie down,' Vanya replied. 'Like everyone else.' 

Grace simply twitched as the red light began to fill her vision. She didn't want to worry the children. 

She needn't have stressed, though. When Luther directed her, she laid down upon the bed and listened to the mechanics below whirr into place. It was strange, every part of her trying to compel her to stay upright. She smoothed her skirt underneath her, adjusted her hair, and finally folded her hands low on her belly as her children waited with baited breath. Her last thought was that she ought to take her shoes off. Within seconds, her vision grew dark and was replaced with a steady, pulsating _STANDBY _as her battery began to charge. 

Some hours later, she awoke to Diego dozing on the chair by the dressing table, his chin bowed to his chest. Her golden dress was on display, hanging on a hook on the back of the bedroom door. Briefly, she wondered when he had put it there and if any of the other children had seen it. For a beat, she lingered on the bed, her fingers tracing the embroidered pattern of the comforter beneath her. 

Eventually she stood, quiet as a mouse, and pulled the blanket off the bed. Approaching Diego, she gently placed it over his shoulders, kissed his temple, and slipped from the bedroom. There was much cleaning to be done; she had been tardy in the days it took for her charging station to be put back together. She'd had to conserve her battery life. 

* 

The children integrated into daily life easier than Grace could have anticipated. If there were hiccups, such as Vanya playing a different instrument or Allison slipping up and calling her daughter by another name, Grace didn't hear about it. Klaus had always rebelled against the norm, and both Luther and Five had been out of the broader population for a long time, but all three began to find themselves again. Ben seemed to struggle with making himself known, but sometimes Grace would feel a flutter of wind by her cheek, or a page in a book would turn of its own accord, and she would smile to herself. 

Diego had always been an outlier. He had been desperate to be recognised by his father, but had been just as hungry as to blend in with wider society. Grace watched him, this version of Diego, this particular man who had his name and face and personality but so clearly wasn't her son, slip easily into the routine that another person had created for him. He came and went with a little more regularity than the son she had had before him, and she wondered if that was a trait that this Diego originally carried, or if it had been built up from guilt of leaving whatever world they had come from. 

She invited them all to her dinner table. After years alone, Grace began to thrive in the kitchen again, finally having an excuse to try all the recipes she had read about and had never had a chance to cook. Mister Hargreeves had had a simple palate, preferring sustenance over flavour. Newly reinvigorated, Grace lunged at the opportunity to add turmeric, tabasco and Tapatío. These were her children but weren't her children, and she delighted in seeing their reactions to her new food. 

Vanya's face went red. Luther went up for seconds. Klaus said, 'if Ben were here, he'd die a second time', and Allison asked if Grace had possibly mixed up the recipe instructions for teaspoon and tablespoons. Five seemed conflicted as to whether he could finish the plate or not, but nobody was allowed to touch it. 

Diego helped her with the dishes afterwards. 

'Was it really that spicy?' Grace asked gently. 

Diego paused, the sponge pressed to the plate. 

'Just a little,' he said, as diplomatically as possible. 'I don't remember you cooking spicy food.' 

'Your father didn't enjoy it,' she said, a lilt in her voice. 'Two cracks of pepper- ' 

'- and nothing more,' he finished for her. 

Somethings weren't that different, then. 

Grace hummed as she dried the dishes and put them away. She would have preferred to wash, but Diego had insisted. Her heels clicked on the floor as she moved about. There was a spring in her step, a liveliness that had been dampened over the years and had now begun to renew. She stacked the plates in the cupboard, before pivoting and returning to start on the pots. 

'Mom,' Diego said cautiously, with an unsteadiness that belied the start of a deep thought. 

Grace paused. She held the saucepan by a handle, the dish cloth in her other hand. When Diego didn't continue, she lifted her head and looked up at him. 

'Yes, dear?' 

Rinsing off the last of the dishes, Diego set them on the sink and pulled out the plug. Snapping off the rubber gloves, he set them aside to dry and grabbed a spare dish cloth. 

'I... _we_ were talking,' he said, taking his time to avoid stumbling. 'Are you aware that... Luther, Klaus, all of us- we don't belong here.' 

'Oh, of course you do,' Grace said, shaking her head as she dried off the saucepan. 'This is your home.' 

'No, I- I mean- ' Diego clicked his tongue, shook his head, and put the cloth down. He took a breath through his nose and steadied himself before looking at her. 'We're not from here. We're from... Five said we're from another timeline. One where things went horribly wrong. We're not really part of _your_ family.' 

Grace paused. She found herself lowering the dish cloth down so she could fully concentrate on Diego, her posture mirroring his own. It occurred to her again that the presence of these siblings meant her own children had left. A pang went through her, causing the corners of her mouth to pinch and her inner workings to thrum in a way that she imagined reflected a wrench of a heart. 

'I know, silly,' she said, her voice light. 'I know my own children. But you still belong here.' 

Reaching over, Grace took Diego's hand in her own. His face was a twist of confusion, but his hand was warm and strong in her own. With a warm smile, Grace squeezed his hand, feeling the ridges of calluses, the swell of a blister that had formed on the side of his finger. 

'How- how long have you known...?' 

Tilting her head, Grace hummed and turned the question over. 

'Oh, I suppose I knew from the start,' she said lightly. 'But you are still somebody's child. You all are. And I tell myself that wherever my children have wound up, that the Grace there loves them all the same.' 

Diego seemed to struggle for a moment about that. With a final squeeze of his hand, Grace turned back to the dishes and went about drying them. 

She hoped her children were safe. 

She hoped the Grace they had found was safe. 

And, quietly, she hoped that Grace was happy. Maybe she had even managed to go dancing. 

* 

The children were twelve the last time they all went out together. Public interest had begun to wane on them collectively. Allison had started to break into the niche teenage market, and Luther was already beginning to get framed as a heartthrob, but Reginald wasn't interested in pursuing those angles. The world needed saving, not more stuffy dinners. 

Grace had stopped dressing up in hopes of leaving. She instead planned a special meal for Vanya, with her favourite roast potatoes and fluffy, chocolate mousse. She would pick out her favourite pieces for Vanya to play on her viola, and they would spend the evening surreptitiously watching the television. Grace had recently discovered old musicals, the kind with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and she would watch them with wide eyes and a hand on her chest where her mechanical whirrings felt like a heartbeat. 

How she longed for that. The music, the dancing, the long, beautiful gowns. Grace had even carefully stitched tiny weights in the hem of some of her gowns, simply for the express purpose of having the fabric billow around like those in the films. The swell of the music, the gorgeous settings and scenery. It was all so lush and wonderful and something she truly ached to experience. 

The opportunity to be held by another and to _dance_. 

Grace knew who she was. She knew _what_ she was. She hadn't been built to dance at opulent dinners. 

But she hadn't been built to become curious, or to feel love, or to ache wistfully for more, either. Yet here she was, her fingers clutching at her necklace as she perched on the edge of the chair and watched the film play out in black and white. 

Loneliness wasn't part of Grace's vocabulary. Not yet, at any rate. Her house was full, and there were always things that needed attending. Loneliness wouldn't come for some time. But she had all to long become familiar with disappointment and dashed hopes. 

She stopped standing by the front door. She learnt to avoid it. She'd take the longer path, through the winding corridors at the back of the house, to avoid treading close to the entrance hall. If she had to pass it, she would keep her gaze down, her eyes averted. She began to believe that even looking at the door for a great length of time would cause her systems to shut down. 

There was no proof that that would occur, but Grace couldn't nudge the idea from her mind. Humans had their superstitions. Allison refused to look at mirrors at night, Ben always uttered 'rabbit rabbit' on the first of the month. Klaus lived a life with cherry-picked spiritual beliefs. Grace had inevitably picked up some traits of her own. Besides, she wouldn't put it past Mister Hargreeves to find a way to punish her for even entertaining the idea of leaving. 

* 

Diego had taken to poking through the albums, diaries and momentos that adorned the bookshelves in the den. Some had been kept for Mister Hargreeves' own benefit (and research), while Pogo and Grace had shared a certain level of sentimentality between them. While the patriarch of the Hargreeves clan kept detailed lists and analyses of events, Pogo and Grace had photographed birthdays, celebrations and other pivotal moments of the children's lives. 

'Vanya didn't have bangs?' Diego asked as he flipped a page. Grace shook her head. 'Huh. That's odd.' 

'You went through a phase. Or... my Diego did. At fourteen. You insisted they cover half your face, like some wild bird.' 

'That sounds awful.' 

'The shade of blue you dyed them was certainly hideous.' 

There were questions Grace wanted to ask in turn. They would come to her at peculiar times and moments. She'd be cleaning the grout in the bathroom, and she would find herself wondering if the other Grace used the same brand of bleach as her. She'd be in the garden, and she wondered if Mister Hargreeves had insisted on snapdragons, too, and if so, if they were the same colour. Did the other Grace have the same clothes, the same jewellery, the same hairstyle? 

Had she ever been allowed out? 

The gold dress had remained out of the closet. Grace couldn't bring herself to put it back. Diego had remarked that he couldn't remember her ever wearing it, but that didn't mean much. There were plenty of parts that the two histories shared in common and plenty more where they differed. 

Sitting on the foot of the bed, Grace took in the dress. Her room had a window (a beautiful addition that she had never even thought she could have wanted), and sunlight was making the bronze and silver undertones shimmer. 

Perhaps, now that he was gone, Grace could start watching her old movies again. When the children had grown up and Vanya had left home, she no longer had the opportunity, nor the excuse, to turn the television on. She had memorised all the films, but nothing compared to sitting down and watching them again. 

She'd also memorised the dance sequences- solo, duet and group. Perhaps if she watched them all again, she might even work up the nerve to put on the dress and try some of the steps out. She'd never dance before, but it couldn't be difficult. After all, she had made a souffle perfectly the first time. Being made of mechanical parts had its perks. 

'Mom?' 

The door opened without warning and Grace jerked out of her reverie. Before she had composed herself, Diego had stuck his head in. His scar being on the wrong side of his face always threw her. 

'Oh! Did I frighten you? Were you charging? Busy?' 

'Ah, oh- ' 

Looking about, Grace grabbed the closest thing and pulled it onto her lap. It happened to be a cushion that Klaus had bought her. It was gaudy and covered in sequins. Mister Hargreeves would have hated it. Maybe that was why he gave it to her. 

'Oh. Oh, no, dear. I was... repairing this,' she said, turning it over and finding no fault. 

Diego eyeballed her. She wasn't one to lie. Sometimes she had omitted the truth for the benefit of another, other times she had skirted around it and emphasised another aspect of the story. But it was rare for her to lie without another individuals guidance, and it was even rarer for her to lie for no reason other than to hide her own embarrassment. 

'Was there something you needed, dear?' she asked, setting the pillow back down. 

Hesitating, as though he had forgotten why he'd been looking for her in the first place, Diego rested his hand upon the door. As Grace stood, he turned his head and eyed the dress that had continued to hang there. His fingers stretched out and he allowed them to brush the edge of the silk skirt. Grace watched him, her hand hovered by the neckline of her blouse, and she bit back the urge to tell him to stop. 

'Why don't you ever wear this?' Diego asked, ignoring her original question. 

'It's far too nice a dress to wear cooking or cleaning, dear,' she said, shaking her head. 

'Exactly.' 

Diego had stepped fully into the bedroom. Clasping her hands together, it occurred to Grace how small her bedroom felt with another person in it. Maybe this was what her children had felt when they had demanded she or Pogo or Mister Hargreeves leave when they were teenagers. 

'I was thinking,' Diego said, starting slowly and with a heavy weight that he'd been thinking about this for quite some time, 'that it might be nice for you to go for a walk in the park.' 

Grace paused. She had to shut that thought of Diego's down right away. She'd never been one to discourage her children's imaginations, but, to be fair, _this_ Diego wasn't truly _her_ child. She had decided to love and care for these strange people as though they were her own, but they _weren't_, and Mister Hargreeves had built a safety protocol within herself to stop herself from encountering harm, and what Diego was suggesting _was_ harmful, and if she were to leave the house she would no doubt be shut down straight away, and that _simply_ couldn't happen. 

'No. There's so much to do,' she said, mustering up as much brightness as she possibly could. 'And there's always the courtyard. The willow tree is looking lovely this time of year.' 

'It's summer,' Diego said, his brow knitting together as Grace placed a hand on his shoulder and went to brush past him. 'It's dropping leaves.' 

'Isn't it lovely, though?' 

Before she could entirely leave the conversation, Diego grabbed her arm. His fingers curled around her left wrist, his thumb pressing to where her pulse might be if she had one. Her eyes fell to it, then up at his face. There was a kill switch near where his hand squeezed. It was only intended to be used in dire circumstances. She frowned, worry marring her features. 

Grace jerked her arm back. Diego, stunned by the show of strength, watched her, his hand grasping thin air. 

A smile returned to her face. She beamed, bright as ever. 

'Why should I want to leave, dear?' she said, lying through her teeth. 'There's ever so much in the house to keep me occupied.' 

It was difficult to walk away. Grace felt like she'd swallowed something small and hard, like a musket ball. It felt lodged in her throat, causing her to swallow compulsively as she made her way down the corridor. 

She couldn't leave. Mister Hargreeves would have never allowed it. Even entertaining the idea could lead to trouble. 

* 

There was always cooking and cleaning to occupy her time, and Grace fell into it wholeheartedly. Granted, the children had begun to find a rhythm in their new lives and most of them weren't living in the house so often now, but she still had things to attend to. Klaus and Five seemed to live there more often than not (Klaus because he had little desire to find his own accommodation and Five as nobody was willing to rent to a thirteen-year-old boy). 

She began to find ways to avoid the front door. It became a game in her mind, one where she would make a path around the house. It was not unlike one of those old-school arcade games, like Pac-man and the ghosts. She was Ms Pac-man and Mister Hargreeves was one of the ghosts. Blinky, Inky, Pinky and Reginald. 

If she avoided the front door, she could then maybe avoid thoughts of walking through it. Maybe Mister Hargreeves had set up some kind of electrical barrier. Maybe if she walked through it, it wouldn't just be a simple flick of a switch. Maybe it would hurt the entire time. 

Maybe... maybe he had wanted her to do it. Just once. Just to teach her a lesson. Just to see if it worked. 

Closing her eyes, Grace dropped the laundry basket she had been carrying on the ground. The thump of the plastic bucket echoed throughout the laundry, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls. She'd never dropped something before; she couldn't tell if it had been deliberate or not- but it had been fun to do. 

There was movement behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she spotted Five. There was a thick book under one arm, the spine and title hidden from view, and a drink in one hand. She couldn't discern what kind of beverage it was from the distance, but it smelt bitter and strong. It wouldn't do a boy his (physical) age to be drinking such things. 

'Are you okay?' 

He never called her _Mom_ or _Grace_. She wondered if he avoided it because he wasn't sure what the right way to address her was. Most of the children had started to do that, actually. 

'Yes, dear. Just caught up in my own thoughts.' 

She crouched to pick up the basket. She expected Five to head off, but when she stood, he was still there, a puzzled look on his face. Grace's fingers tapped along the edge of the basket as she held it. He seemed to be waiting, but for what Grace couldn't tell. 

'Dear?' 

'You've never dropped anything.' 

Grace paused. Blinked. Straightened her spine and set the basket on her hip. 

'There's always a first for everything,' she said with a smile. 

While that didn't seem to satisfy Five's interest, he nodded and went to make his leave. Grace counted back from two, before Grace took a step towards him. 

'Dear?' she called again, and was quietly relieved when he looked back. 'Your father... did he ever install anything in the front door?' 

'Install anything?' Five repeated, his brow furrowing. 

'Like security.' 

There was a beat. Five's face screwed up a fraction, just a wrinkle in his nose and a deep V between his wide, green eyes. He eyed her as though she had asked a strange question, and, quietly, Grace decided she must have. 

'A lock?' Five finally offered. 

'Anything electrical?' 

'Maybe a camera?' 

'Oh.' Grace nodded. There was a faint smile on her lips, but it was fading quickly. 'Yes. Of course.' 

With another perturbed look, Five turned and left. His soft footfalls echoed down the corridor as he left Grace with her own swirling thoughts. 

* 

A door had been opened up inside her. Try as she might to close it, Grace could feel it tapping around in her head. For so long she had refused to think about it, to entertain the idea of actually leaving the house of her own accord. She'd spend her days much as she already did, perhaps eventually learning on how to run maintenance upon herself once Pogo passed (if he ever upgraded her internal permissions), and then... 

And then... 

And then Diego, this _new_ Diego, this _other_ Diego, had come along and thrown that locked door wide open. 

The godforsaken gold dress still hung on the back of her door. Grace couldn't will herself to lift her arm, to clasp her fingers around the hook, to bring her legs to carry her to the wardrobe and put it back into hiding. 

The idea of actually leaving the house and standing even on the concrete footpath just outside the door was too much to bare. She wanted to delete the idea, she wanted to erase it from her mind completely, but it refused to budge. It taunted her, dancing about in the deepest recesses of her mainframe, with the same pulsating rhythm as her battery warning light when she finally turned in for the evening to charge. 

Grace would never curse at her children. Even the sheer idea of thinking ill of her children made her inner workings twist in distaste. But _this_ Diego was not her son, and _oh_, she was as close as she'd ever be to thinking ill of him. She even went so far as to hoping he tripped and stubbed his toe, before she quickly apologised to no one under her breath and hurried back to mopping the third floor corridor. 

* 

It was Pogo who frequently dealt with the mail. Grace knew how to write cheques and thank you notes, but Pogo collected the mail himself and would go to the post office. It all seemed terribly exciting and important but, as most of it involved leaving the house, Grace had never done it herself. 

Pogo would take the mail, would sort it himself, and deal with it accordingly. Sometimes Grace would enter the kitchen to find bits of it left for her; things that Pogo either didn't want to deal with himself (typically letters turning down offers for charity dinners) or didn't have the time to handle (accounting, typically; Grace, after all, was run on zeroes and ones and math was part of her make up). 

That morning, she had been left a large stack of unexpected correspondence. She hadn't ever seen that much. Not since the children were in the early teens, at any rate, and fanmail had still been delivered to the house. 

Standing in front of the tablet, she set down her basket of cleaning supplies and picked up the stack. 

Bills. Gas, electricity, water, rates. While it was a little peculiar for Pogo to leave all this for her, it wasn't unheard of and Grace had done all of them before. 

Mixed in were letters. Most were addressed directly to Pogo, and she recognised a decent amount of the return addresses. Politicians, CEOs, a not-for-profit director. Others, strangely, simply said _To the homeowner_, and Grace had no idea what that meant. Surely they knew Mister Hargreeves was deceased. 

Most interestingly, though, were the items scattered about. Loose leaf pamphlets, catalogues and advertisements were stuck in between the bills and letters. Grace hadn't seen anything like them since the children had lived at home and one of their chores had been to collect the mail. 

Quietly curious, her head cocked to the side, Grace set the bills and letters down and eyeballed the junk mail. The children had been fascinated by catalogues and had spent hours reading about a world beyond the Academy. Grocery stores and clothing stores, travel agencies and car yards. Grace, too, had privately been intrigued. 

A church was having a barbeque. 

A farmer's market was open that weekend. 

A local baseball team was looking for new members. 

A bar was having a jazz night at the end of the month. 

'Hey. I didn't know where to put them.' 

The leaflet about the bar slipped from Grace's hand and wafted its way to the floor. Looking over her shoulder, she watched as Diego sauntered in. He looked like he'd been working in the garden. Dirt covered his hands and there were grass stains on his shirt. Grace was going to have a tough time getting some of them out. 

'Pogo usually...' she started, before finding she wasn't sure how to finish. 

'He _still_ won't let you do the mail by yourself?' Diego asked with an eye roll as he approached. 'Seriously, you're more than capable of adding a stamp and walking it down to the postbox.' 

He stooped down and collected the paper she had dropped. Holding it by the corner so as to not spread the dirt, he eyed it before pointedly handing it over. 

'Jazz. You should go.' 

Something flickered into life, deep inside Grace. It flared, smouldering like an ember on a coal. Grace couldn't immediately identify what it was. Frustration. Irritation. Maybe a little panicked. 

'Diego, you know I can't.' 

Jealousy? No, jealousy was a fear that something would be taken away. Grace had nothing that could be taken from her. 

Envious. She was envious. Envy was coveting what someone else had. Diego had the freedom to move in and out of the house. He could explore the outside world, he could attend the jazz night. 

'Why not?' 

Turning to the mail, Grace began to sort it. The letters addressed to Pogo went in one pile, the others merely addressed _To the homeowner _went in another. The advertising material had its own stack. 

'I just... can't,' she said, spluttering a little. 

'_Why_?' 

'There are reasons. Your father never allowed it.' 

'The Grace of my home could.' 

That made her pause. Her eyes slid to where Diego stood. His hand was outstretched, the leaflet still held between two fingers. 

'Could she just?' 

She was tempted to give some kind of short, snide remark. _Bully for you_ had been a fondness of Klaus' for a period. 

Something in her tone must have been clipped, though, as she saw Diego's spine straighten a little and his eyes narrow. She took the mail from him, junk as it may be, and added it to the pile. Folding it all together, her shoulders ever so slightly hunched, she bent over the table to give the appearance of being busy. 

'We went to the park. Once,' Diego said, his voice low. 'She enjoyed it.' 

The park. What a tremendous idea. If she stood on the uppermost floor of the house, she could see it between two buildings. On clear, bright days, she could see bushes and shrubs that were covered in pink flowers. In summer, the trees were a luscious green, and in winter their bare branches would be dusted with snow. 

How wonderful it would be to go there. To witness it all for herself. Sometimes the children would bring stories home of their adventures outside and walks in the park, and Grace had longed to accompany them. She had felt it deep in her heavy metal bones. 

'I imagine she did,' Grace said softly, mostly to herself. 

Setting the mail down, she leant over and picked up her basket of cleaning supplies. It was difficult to walk around the table; her hands felt like they were trembling of their own accord, her feet heavy beneath her. She could feel her internal fan speeding up as a strange wave of heat ran through her. The room suddenly felt too small and oppressive. The weight of the whole house suddenly felt as though it was about to come crashing down upon her. 

She was trapped. She was stuck inside a gilded cage. She'd always known it, but for years Grace had been kept busy. The children had needed a loving hand, someone who looked out for them. Even Mister Hargreeves had required her presence in some way. 

And then the children had left. 

And then Mister Hargreeves kept dismissing her. 

There were only so many times she could polish the silverware. There were only so many times she could dust the doorways. There were only so many times she could leave his office after being turned away before she found herself at the end of her tether. 

Pogo may have grieved for his friend, but at least he could leave the house and make new ones. Grace had had to wait for a new family to come to her. 

'I'd really like to take you there.' 

Turning about, Grace drew in a sharp breath. She felt her fans settle for a moment at the rush of cool air, before they began overclocking again. She thrust the basket of cleaning supplies at Diego. 

'Be a dear and put these away, will you?' 

'I don't- _Mom_\- ' 

When Diego didn't immediately grab the basket, Grace shook her head and forced a smile on her face. 

'Never mind, I'll do it myself. There's so much to do.' 

There was a noticeable tremble in her step as she forced herself to march away. Perhaps if she ignored Diego's offer for long enough, he'd forget about it himself. 

* 

Time existed in an abstract manner for Grace. She was a little like Five, where time flowed through him like blood and marrow. She was built upon a constant stream of ones and zeroes. However, she only observed time in the way it effected the living creatures around her. It didn't matter when she cleaned, as it had no impact on her, but she knew vacuuming at one in the morning was perhaps quite rude. Breakfast was cooked in the morning, as people tended to appreciate cold cereal and warm pancakes as the first meal of the day instead of, say, creamy fettuccine or mushroom and leek risotto. 

Weekends held no greater importance for her than Monday morning or an idle Wednesday afternoon. Particularly now that her new family had found a rhythm for themselves and her presence in their lives had lost some of its novelty, she fell back into a tried and true schedule that kept her days busy. At the very least, the added privacy of her routine meant she didn't feel so embarrassed about watching her stories on the television. One small bonus was that she had a lot of movies to catch up on. 

She was working on her usual loop of the second storey with a duster in hand. Her bedroom was at the end of the hall, and as she turned a corner she noticed the door was open. Tilting her head to the side, Grace paused midstep. Pogo had been rather nonplussed by the upgrade in her living conditions, and he hadn't shown any great curiousity in it. 

Careful, cautious, Grace approached her bedroom. There was a slight shadow in the doorway. Leaning forward, she moved lightly until she could peer into her room. 

It was Diego. He was on his knees and rummaging through her wardrobe. He wasn't one for thieving. That was Klaus or a teenage Allison. Maybe even Five, though that pesky habit seemed to be more of a consequence on living alone for so long. 

'Diego.' 

He jolted backwards and neatly landed on his backside. 

'If you need money, I can ask Pogo for the checkbook.' 

'What?' 

Confusion marred his face and Grace wondered if they had both misinterpreted the situation. Diego shook his head, knelt back forward, and pulled out a pair of heels. 

'I was trying to figure out what shoes would go better. The purple pair is nice, but Patch said black is always a good, safe choice.' 

'Who's Patch?' Grace asked, deciding it best to stick with the simplest question first. 

The shoes he had pulled out were an old pair of Louboutins. A simple stiletto, glossy and chic with the statement red lacquer sole. Allison had been completely enamoured with them growing up, and Grace had promised to give them to her when she was older. Perhaps she still would. They wouldn't fit, but the sentiment ought to carry across. 

'She...' Diego shook his head. Then, as though he had decided to not go down that path, he went back to the original topic. 'Will these go with your gold dress?' 

Turning her head, Grace finally noticed that it had been moved. Instead of hanging from the back of her door, Diego had placed it so it was draped across the mirror of her dresser. It was likely to wrinkle there, but she strangely wasn't focused on that. 

'A nude shoe would be better,' she found herself saying. 'The black is too bold.' 

Grace knew what Diego was doing. She didn't dare linger on it, but she knew. If she thought about it, it would allow fear to come in. If she stuck to simply attending the situation at hand, she might be able to get pulled along with it and get caught up in the fun. 

'These?' 

From the back the wardrobe, Diego pulled out a pair of nude Jimmy Choo pumps. The heel wasn't as high as the Louboutins, nor nearly as glossy. Something with a shimmer would have gone better, but aside from the height and width of the heel, Grace's shoes had been about simplicity. The original gold shoes had gone missing at some point. 

Grace nodded. Diego stood, shut the door to the wardrobe, and dusted his hands along the front of his jeans. 

'Go along with me and put it on.' 

'Diego- ' 

'_Please_,' he insisted. 'Don't ask questions.' 

Before she could argue, he snatched the duster from her. Poking her in the bicep with the handle so she swayed towards the dress (her feet were too firmly planted on the ground to allow herself to move), he left the room. 

There were other things that needed attending to. She had five other things on her list for that day (dust the door frames, wipe down the counters on the third floor, prepare Pogo's dinner, scrub the basement bathroom and dust the shelves in Mister Hargreeves' office), plus there was a musical she wanted to watch on the television that evening. 

There were oh so many things to keep her busy. She didn't have time to play this game. 

* 

She put on the dress. 

She pulled on a pair of pantyhose and slipped on the shoes. 

Sitting down in front of her dresser, she began to do her hair. It hadn't been set, but she still unpinned it from its usual updo, and it spilled out in a series of curls. If she had time, she could look at some of Allison's old magazines and find a way to style it outside of her usual manner. But, on the other hand, if Grace allowed herself time to get caught up in things like that, she might start finding excuses to not go along with this insane idea. 

A swipe of glitter ran over her eyelids and across the apples of her cheeks. It likely wasn't in fashion any more, but Grace had never followed modern styles. 

As she stood, she smoothed out the skirt of her dress across her petticoat. Her pearls sat delicately against her collar bones; something flashier would suit the dress better, but all her jewellery was relatively modest. It would do for now, for this game of dress up. 

It was a little eerie, heading downstairs dressed as she was. Grace didn't experience _deja vu_, not really. That was a solely human experience. But as she descended the stairs to find Diego in the main entrance hall, she felt as though she were some ghost, haunting the building and stuck in a time some twenty-odd years earlier. The Hargreeves' own version of Miss Havisham. 

Diego was dressed all in black; a neat shirt and clean jeans. Normally Grace wouldn't pay any mind to it, but she felt strangely overdressed in comparison. 

'You look beautiful.' 

Unused to such compliments, Grace just smiled, her head twitching a little to the side as she failed to find an appropriate response in time, and merely thanked him. 

He took her by the hand. Grace knew where he was leading her, and although she resisted a little, her feet seemed to feel compelled to follow him. One step, two steps, three, five, seven, all leading closer to the front door. Only now did she notice the envelope sticking out of his back pocket, a logo printed in the corner as that of the bar that had sent advertising material to the house earlier that month. 

The sun was setting. Pink and red was coming in through the windows that framed the front door. A cold wave washed over her as the light ran over her ankles and knees. 

Diego's hand was already on the handle. This was the closest Grace had been to the door in years- _decades_. She was shaking, her fans whirling, her electronic parts buzzing as they struggled to keep her upright. This was part of the defence mechanism Mister Hargreeves had to have installed, it was all part his plan to keep her inside. Even in his death, she was required to stay safely in the house, lest she wander off and find her identity beyond the walls of the Academy. 

'Diego, no,' she blurted out, pulling away from the door. 

Back, back, she had to get back. Away, where it was safe. Back to the kitchen, Pogo would be expecting his dinner soon. 

'Mom, please.' 

'_No_.' 

Twisting, she began to tug from his hand. She could break free, she could, but she didn't want to hurt him in the process. 

'I- I _can't_. This was fun, lovely, but- but I can't- ' 

'It's fine, Mom, really- ' 

Diego was refusing to let go. His hand was tight around her wrist. With a desperate noise, Grace began to pray at his fingers. Callused, worn. Years of training, and heavens, Diego had developed a strong grip. 

'It's- it's not possible,' she said, babbling a little. She was hot, cold, she felt dizzy. 'I can't.' 

'_Why_?' 

'I- I _can't_.' 

The sun was growing pinker. Maybe that was her hardware rebooting. The sun couldn't possibly be setting that quickly. A barrier, maybe. Some kind of firewall. She was standing on the fourth tile away from the door, she'd have to remember that. Keep a further distance in the future. 

'Diego, _please_, I'm not- ' 

He finally let go. Good, good. 

'Mom, look at me.' 

His hands were on her bare shoulders. His fingers pressed in. Stunned, she looked up at him. Shaking. She couldn't stop shaking. She was shutting down, and he didn't seem to care about that. 

'I can't.' 

'Why? Just picture the word in your mind.' 

She'd said that to him, so many times. Hearing it pass his lips drew Grace back, away from the fear and panic that swelled inside of her. Her eyes darted from the door, the window, to his face, the scar that was on the wrong side. 

Why? Why couldn't she leave? 

'Your father... he- he didn't want me to leave. I couldn't- I _can't_.' 

'Why?' 

'If I go out, I could switch off. I might wipe. I can't risk it.' 

'Did he tell you that?' 

Grace stopped. The question sat heavily inside of her, deep in her chest. The weight of the dress swirled around her, the silk brushing along her knees and calves. It was oh so beautiful, and it was shimmering in the light of the afternoon sun. 

'Did he?' Diego repeated when she failed to reply. 

'No,' she finally admitted, her voice small. 'But... it might happen. In the walls. He might have built something into the walls.' 

Stretching out, Grace leant over until her hand pressed to the wall. Smooth wooden panelling, small ridges forming where the old varnish had begun to chip away. If she pressed hard enough, maybe she'd find the panel that prevented her from leaving. She could reach in and rip all the wiring out herself. 

'Some kind of preventative measure,' she went on. 'To stop me from getting such silly ideas in my head.' 

Diego's hand moved to her bicep. He drew her hand down and back to her side. 

'Let's just try,' he suggested. 

'If I power down, I might fall.' 

'I'll catch you.' 

'I could hurt you. I'm very heavy.' 

Diego shrugged and gave half a smile. 'You used to watch me and Luther fight. I think I'll manage.' 

Everything was telling Grace to stop. Stay inside. Stay safe. And yet she found herself nodding, agreeing with Diego's ridiculous idea. She watched him open the front door to the small vestibule beyond. She'd never stepped into it before, and a wave of dizziness rushed over her as she crossed the threshold. Her eyes darted about, taking in the black-and-white tiles, the spiderweb in the corners, the dusty skirting. 

She'd never paid much attention as to the cleanliness of this area. She supposed she had thought Pogo must have done the cleaning, but that didn't seem to be the case. 

She hadn't switched off. 

Diego opened the door to the footpath. 

She was still standing. 

It was warm. That was the first thing Grace noticed. A breeze rushed in past the door, kicking up leaves that spilled into the vestibule and towards her feet. She looked down as the first leaves of fall danced over her Jimmy Choos and into the house. She'd have to sweep them up later. 

A car sounded somewhere outside. She knew the sound, but it seemed so much louder than it did when she was deep inside the house. 

She took a step. Diego had her by the hand, with his other arm wrapped around her waist. 

Wide-eyed, she took a step. Another, to step into the doorway. One foot down on the concrete outside. 

It was far warmer than Grace anticipated. The courtyard was covered by overhanging trees and was almost always in shadow. No such features existed here. The heat came up from the footpath, and the wind swept it through the air. 

She could taste the crispness in the air. The smell of exhaust fumes, the smoke from someone grilling in a nearby backyard. The waft of something animalistic, the tang of perfume and cologne as people went out for the evening. 

People were walking by. Some turned to look at them, no doubt a habitual behaviour. Most were laughing, caught up in the promise of a fun night out. Laughter and giddiness, some of them fuelled by alcohol. They were joyous and ecstatic. They were free to go outside. 

Grace was one of them. She was standing on the footpath, taking in the last of the setting sun. Closing her eyes, she lifted her chin up just a fraction and felt the kiss of the residual light. 

There had been barrier. Nothing to stop her from opening the door. No security measures, no firewalls, no virus that spilled out into her circuitry and sent her to her knees. Just her own deep fears and insecurities, built up over the years in the same fashion that had stopped Luther leaving the familiarity of the Academy. 

'Are you okay?' 

Diego was still holding her hand. He squeezed it, careful as ever. Batting open her eyes, Grace blinked to clear her vision and smiled brightly. 

She hadn't been wiped. She hadn't been harmed. It was almost a let down. Almost. 

'Oh, yes. I'm wonderful.' 

She was radiant. She felt like she was glowing like the sun. She'd never felt so incredibly ecstatic, so _alive_. She wasn't just clicking parts and mechanical whirrings. She was _alive_. 

Diego gave her hand another squeeze and reached for the front door. As he closed and locked it, all with one hand, Grace looked out across the street. People were driving by in their vehicles- she'd never truly considered the range of cars that where were. Girls were walking by in low cut blouses and tight jeans; boys had a variety of facial hair and piercings. There were flowers growing in the garden across the road that Mister Hargreeves would have never allowed. 

'Are you ready?' 

Grace nodded. She wasn't sure what she was ready for, but she simply _was_. 

She had to look at her feet as she went down the steps. It was like she was learning to walk again. One foot in front of the other as she began to lean into Diego's arms to help steady herself. His voice was soothing and steadying as he guided her onto the path. 

'That's it,' he said, coaxing her along. 'That's great, you're doing well. Here, mind the cracks. Are you okay?' 

She could only nod, as though she was some kind of bobble-headed doll, the type Vanya had collected for a period in her preteens. 

The trees around them rustled in the breeze. Occasionally a door would open somewhere, and music would come pouring out. People were cooking dinner, and Grace would catch a whiff of garlic and onions. Once, a bell rang out from behind them and Diego pulled Grace in closer as a man on a bicycle went riding past. He offered only a nod and a wave of two fingers as thanks. 

'Asshole,' Diego muttered. 'He shouldn't be on the footpath.' 

'Brilliant,' Grace murmured, more to herself. She didn't know why he couldn't be on the footpath, but she liked Diego's bristling indignation. 

The walk down the street was slow. Grace appreciated it. She still had a tremble in her hands, her fingers twisting around one another as she leant in and craned her head to look every which way. She had to peer down each alleyway, around each corner to the road beyond. Every open window was stared into, each car that passed them was studied. Everything was _new_, and the sensory input was incredible. Grace had been hungry for a new experience for so long, and she was drinking her fill like a starving, dehydrated man that had been lost in the desert. 

Diego was a quiet melody in her ear. He pointed out places of interest (though, for Grace, everything was a place of interest). Cafes he frequented, stores he went to, places of historical note, including locations he had gone to as a child with his siblings. There was a particular path he was leading her down, but she didn't mind if they took forever to get there. 

He showed her how to cross the road, how to look left and then right. How to push the button at the intersection, how to stick to the right so they weren't going against the flow of traffic. Everything that would be second nature to most adults, but to Grace were new facts. Everything was simply so new and incredible that there wasn't any time for fear to squeeze itself in. 

At the end of the block, on the other side of the street, was the bar that was hosting the jazz night. Her steps began to falter, and without thinking she reached over and let her fingers rest upon the back of Diego's wrist. Walking down the street had been thrilling enough, but the bar was already bustling, with people heading in and out. Pre-recorded music was playing, and underneath it all Grace could pick up the band tuning their instruments. 

It was busy- far busier than Grace had anticipated. Diego may not have founded overrun, depending on the sorts of places he usually went, but for Grace who was used to a maximum number twelve (the seven children, Mister Hargreeves, Pogo, and the rare occasion they had guests), this was unexpected. Diego went to cross the road, but Grace tugged at his wrist to stop him. 

'I just need a moment,' she said, apologetically. 

There were windows that framed the front doors. Through them, Grace could spot small groups of people milling around tall tables, drinks in hand and laughter on their lips. Most were dressed neatly, with cocktail dresses and collared shirts. Grace wondered if she were perhaps a hair overdressed with her golden gown, but it was too late to go back and change. 

'There's a beer garden at the rear. It's likely to be quiet.' 

'Beer garden,' Grace echoed quietly. She had no idea what that meant. 

She linked her arms around Diego's. Pressing bodily up beside him, Grace took a shallow breath in through her nose to help cool her inner workings. There was a man at the door, checking tickets and stamping the underside of peoples wrists. It was a curious sight, and it provided Grace with a mild distraction as they walked up. 

Diego pulled out the tickets. As he did, a couple walked out, one with a cigarette at his lips and a lighter already in hand. The woman looked over at Grace as she walked down. She had dark hair, done up in what was likely intended to be a chignon, though it had started to fall out. Grace wondered what Vanya would look like with a similar style. The woman's eyes ran down to take in Grace's dress, before she joined her partner on the footpath to smoke. 

Grace's wrist was stamped and Diego led her inside. She didn't have time to admire the wet ink. 

The woman's passing gaze had left Grace unsettled, and the sheer number of people in the bar only exacerbated it. The stage was in one corner. A drummer, trombonist and contrabassist were doing the final preparations on their instruments before the show. Opposite the stage was the bar, where a throng of people were gathered. The lighting was low, and the alcohol tingled Grace's nose. 

Everyone seemed to be staring at her. 

'People are looking,' Grace murmured. 

'Only because you look beautiful,' Diego replied with a smile. 

If Grace were more accustomed to being in these situations, she may have been flattered. As it was, though, she only held onto Diego's arm tighter. Her eyes fell to the stamp on the underside of her wrist; it was a dark blue and read _ELLINGTONS_. 

'Do you think they know I'm an A.I.?' 

There had been articles over the years about the family and where they had wound up. Grace wasn't certain if she'd ever been included in them (Mister Hargreeves having forbidden such material from staying in the house for long), but there was always a chance. Vanya had, after all, mentioned her a few times in her book, and had even included a few short sentences about their _Land Before Time _adventures. 

If her picture had been included in any of the articles (unlikely, as Grace couldn't recall a time her photo had even been taken), some of the attendants at the bar might know her. 

'Hey, hey- ' Diego stopped and stood in front of her. His hands squeezed both of hers. 'You look wonderful. I'm glad you're here. They're probably wondering where you got your dress, or who did your hair, or- or why you're with some idiot like me.' 

'Don't speak badly about yourself, Diego, you're a very special boy.' 

Grace couldn't help it; she'd immediately reverted back to her original programming. Diego, seeming to notice it, began to laugh. He slipped back beside her, a firm arm around her middle. 

There was a door on the other side of the bar. Despite the number of people in the bar, Diego seemed to be able to cut a path through them; perhaps it was an extension of his powers, and one Grace had never been able to witness due to her entrapment. 

The door opened up an enclosed outside area. A patio covered half the outdoor area. The dining tables were made of heavy wood with corrugated iron features; matching benches ran alongside them. The lighting was a deep yellow and seemed to comprise primarily of fairy lights that ran up to the roof and along the fencing. It made her gown shimmer, the silver and bronze hues underneath the gold twisting and dancing in the fairy lights. Despite the warmth of the evening, most people still remained inside, likely due to the band's call time. 

There was an empty bench near the back of the beer garden. Letting go of Diego for the first time since they left the house, Grace hurried over and seated herself at the table. She could hear the first rumble of drums, a cheer from the crowd, and then the static-filled murmurings from the microphone inside. 

'I'm going to get a drink,' Diego said. 'Would you like anything?' 

Grace couldn't really eat or drink, but she liked the offer. Shaking her head, she watched as Diego passed her a menu from off the table. 

'Just pretend to read this if someone comes up to you,' he said. 'I'll be back shortly.' 

While she didn't quite know what pretending to read a menu would help accomplish, she followed his direction. As she studied the list of cocktails, wondering how a Brandy Alexander compared to a Sidecar (neither being a drink Mister Hargreeves imbibed), she saw the last few attendants in the garden glance over at her. Dutifully running her eyes down the menu, deciding to commit it all to memory, she steadfastly avoided looking at anyone else. She didn't know when she'd have an opportunity like this again. 

Someone seemed to be trying to figure out how to approach her. A man in pleated pants and a button-up shirt was lingering on the periphery of her vision. Turning her head a little away from him, her fingers gripped the menu tighter. 

Old Fashioned. Cosmopolitan. Grasshopper. She knew how to mix all those drinks, thanks to her programming. It was easier to look at the ingredients listed than to face the idea that a complete strange may want to speak to her. 

'Hey. Here. I got you this.' 

A martini glass was set down in front of her. Snapping her head up to find Diego easing onto the bench beside her, Grace smiled gratefully. The man, cowed by Diego's presence, had moved off to head inside to listen to the band. 

'It's only soda and lime,' Diego said; he was holding a bottle of beer that had a wedge of lime stuck in the neck. 'You don't need to drink it. I thought you might like the novelty.' 

Grace did. Holding the glass delicately, relaxing a little now that Diego was back beside her, she settled back into the bench. 

The band had started to play. It was a lively tune, and a little faster than what Grace was used to, with her preference for older films. Even though she couldn't see the band in action, she could still hear it all through the open door. If she tilted her head to the side, she could potentially even look inside. 

Her hand rested upon Diego's knee. He was a steady, grounding presence, and Grace found she could relax beside him just a little bit. Her hand squeezed a little as she raised the martini glass to her lips and let the soda fizzle and pop under her nose. Tipping the glass back a little, she took a tentative sip. It was a little sweet, the bubbles dancing over tongue. While she couldn't eat, _per se_, she did have the capacity to taste. Mister Hargreeves had been firm on how he liked things to taste. 

The quick jazz gave way to something slower. The music had started to carry, and there seemed to be a vocalist in the band. 

Some of the guests had left the beer garden and gone back into the bar. There were still a few patrons milling about nearby. Grace wondered if they, too, were experiencing their first night out of the house for the first time in nearly thirty years. 

Diego set down his beer. Grace dropped her eyes and watched as a bead of condensation slithered down the slide of the bottle and landed on the wood. He stood. Her eyes followed him, a little stunned. His hand extended out to her. 

'Would you like to dance?' 

She would. 'I haven't ever danced with someone.' 

'Yeah, well, I haven't danced since Dad gave us lessons. Allison always insisted on leading, and Vanya kept standing on my toes. Klaus might take me up the offer these days, but he's just as likely to kick me in the shins.' 

She took his hand. 

Standing, her skirts billowing out around her, Grace side-stepped out of the bench. The entire gown seemed to glow in the rich yellow of the lights as she walked towards him. Her left hand set upon his bicep, her right folding around his own. Diego's hand rested upon the flare of her hip. He may have said he hadn't danced in a while, but Grace wasn't sure if she bought that. 

They were too far away to pick up each beat in the music, but it didn't seem to matter. Grace could feel the rhythm echoing in her hollow bones, along her circuitry, through her entire body. Her eyes closed and she rest her head upon Diego's shoulder. She couldn't let all her weight fall against him, not without risking great harm, but she could relax just a little. 

'Thank you for bringing me here,' she said, soft and into his ear. 

'I'm glad you're here.' 

Grace's hand slid up to his shoulder. It curled around, pressing lightly into his shirt. 

'Did you ever take your Grace here?' 

'No. Just the park. Just once.' 

One day she would follow up on that. But, for now, she heaved a heavy sigh and let herself sway back and forth. It wasn't a dance she had learnt from Astaire and Rogers. She doubted any director of the Golden Age would have allowed something so simple to be filmed. But, for Grace, it was perfect. 

She'd ask to go to the park tomorrow. 

She'd ask to see an art gallery the day after. 

She'd ask to visit the zoo the day after that one. 

Maybe one day she'd even work up the courage to go to the library by herself. 

The days were oh so very long and, she now realised, oh so very empty. It was time she learnt how to fill them. 


End file.
